


Five Minutes Late

by JennLynn77



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence The Lying Detective, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I had my hands full with dumb and dumber, Johnlock Roulette, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Rosie Mrs. Hudson Molly and Mycroft are mentioned, Sexual Assault, Sherlock and John finally talk about all the stupid shit they've done to each other, The sexual assault is NOT graphic, and was treated delicately, s4 fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12078909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennLynn77/pseuds/JennLynn77
Summary: Instead of Culverton Smith trying to murder Sherlock, what if something else happened when they were alone together? What if John had been able to get there five minutes sooner?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a conversation on Tumblr about different ideas for the scene from The Lying Detective in the hospital when Smith was alone with Sherlock. I had an idea and a few of the people involved thought it was a good one. That brings us to this fic. Smith sexually assaults Sherlock. Right as John bangs through the door to save him. But he's a little too late. I kept this at an M rating. It's not graphic, it's not gratuitous. The only gratuitous things happening here are long overdue conversations, comfort, and love. 
> 
> Unbetaed, not Brit picked. All mistakes are mine.

John could feel it. Every cell in his body was vibrating with it. Panic. His hands clenched and released in tandem at his sides as he sprinted down the hall to Sherlock's hospital suite. He grabbed at the door handle leading to Sherlock's room. Locked. Locked? As he continued to twist it, he could hear muffled cries coming from inside the room. Was Sherlock dreaming? A nightmare? A cold, anxious wave rose up John's spine. He released it with an icy shake. He needed to get in that room. **NOW**.

 

He pressed his ear against the door. Whispering. Not Sherlock's voice. Someone was in there with him. Another soft keen. Sherlock's voice. Oh God. John's head spun. "Stop. Please." Sherlock pleaded through a clenched breath with a hoarse voice. He never begged. John frantically looked up and down the long corridor of the hospital. His eyes fell upon a fire extinguisher. He tore it from the wall and raced back to Sherlock's door. It took him two attempts to break the door in.

 

"Off. We. **Pop**." whispered Culverton Smith.

 

John's eyes took in the scene in front of him: Navy blue blanket pushed down to Sherlock's knees. His gown pushed to his left side, revealing his naked torso, and, oh no; Smith's right hand encircled around Sherlock's length, his left arm across Sherlock's windpipe. There were two sluggish splashes of climactic release, and Smith unhanded him, wiping his gloved hand on Sherlock's quaking right thigh. He threw the glove in the medical waste bin on the wall, contaminating it with all of the other waste fluids it held.

 

John's eyes widened when the realization of what he'd saw transpire finally registered in his mind. He stalked forward, grabbed Smith from behind and yanked him away from Sherlock. Sherlock gasped for air and John dragged Smith from Sherlock.

 

"What the fuck are you doing? What were you doing to him?"

 

"Nothing he'll ever repeat to anyone. And even if he did, no one would believe him. His word against mine. The words of a drug addict versus the words of a philanthropist. No one would believe you either, Doctor Watson. People would think you'd say anything to back up whatever story concocted by your friend. And seeing that I've just put that glove in the hazardous medical waste container that is now sufficiently contaminated by other peoples’ DNA, there is no proof that I was doing anything to him at all. I was just visiting a sick friend. Checking on his condition and all that. Being the kind and generous man that I am. That man that the public knows. Sheltering and caring for the man who threatened to hurt me, my daughter and you. So many witnesses to Mr. Holmes' behavior and condition, Doctor Watson. None of them a good witness for Mr. Holmes."

 

John's face fell. He squeezed his eyes together to try to gather his thoughts. This couldn't be happening. If he'd been five minutes earlier...

 

"Mr. Holmes? You okay?" yelled the out of breath officer (that was supposed to be keeping watch on Sherlock's room) as he arrived at the scene.

 

"He's in distress, I'm helping him! I was trying to help him!" shouted Smith, hands in the air. No trace of the sinister act he had just committed in his voice. He was clearly putting on a show.

John shoved Smith towards the constable, and as he dragged him out to the hall, Smith winked at John.

 

A horrified shiver ran up John's back. He turned back to Sherlock and tried to calm himself. Sherlock didn't just need a doctor now, he needed John. 

 

John closed his eyes and raised his hands to chest level, palms facing the floor and inhaled and slowly exhaled before stepping forward. Four inhalations and exhalations later, he walked toward Sherlock. He reached over his sweat-covered body and pulled the blanket over him, covering his softening penis and pale torso. Looking up at Sherlock's face, he saw tears on his friend's eyelashes, tear streaks down his cheeks. His gaze, far away. He was just blinking at random intervals. He'd seen this happen once before. He needed to pull Sherlock out of his mind.

 

"Sherlock. Can you hear me? It's John. It's me, John, Sherlock." _'I was five minutes too late, Sherlock. I'm so sorry I wasn't here to protect you._ ' he thought silently.

 

Sherlock stared blankly ahead, fixated on the ceiling. Tentatively, John placed his left palm on Sherlock's right shoulder, lightly rubbing his hand there, his thumb tracing the curve of the socket. A soft, friendly touch. Something to gently pull Sherlock back.

 

It was as if John hadn't said or done a thing. Sherlock continued to look unseeingly at the ceiling, Intermittent tears trailed down his cheeks or back toward his ears.

 

John's face broke. _'This is not happening. Why do horrible things keep happening to this wonderful man?'_  John bit his lip and forced himself to try again.

 

"He's gone, Sherlock. You don't have to be afraid anymore. I'm right here with you. He's being taken away right now. He's never going to lay a hand on you ever again. Do you hear me, Sherlock? I need you to look at me. Please, look at me."

 

His left hand continued to slowly, soothingly, trace along Sherlock's right shoulder. "You're all right now. You're safe. No one's going to get near you now that I'm here, okay? Anyone tries, and they have to get through me. It's just you and me, Sherlock. Always the two of us. The two of us against the rest of the world. Do you hear me? You beautiful, selfless man." As always, John was a soldier. No one ever left behind.

 

John pulled the sleeve of his shirt down over his right hand and scrunched a bit of it in his fingers. He reached up to Sherlock's warm, tear-streaked face, and gently began to drag the soft shirt's cuff along Sherlock's eyes and cheeks, wishing he could as easily erase the hurt that caused the tears to fall as he could the tears that followed it.

 

A low, mellifluous sound came from Sherlock's throat at the feeling of John's soft shirt on his face. John leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock's right temple.

 

"There you are, Sherlock. Come on, it's just me. You're fine now. You're safe."

 

For the first since John came into this room, it looked as though Sherlock was now intentionally blinking his eyes. The autopilot his brain seemed to have forced him on seemed to be slowly powering down. After a deep breath, Sherlock let his eyes settle somewhere other than the ceiling. He finally refocused on John's face. John forced a tight smile down at him.

 

"John?'" Sherlock said brokenly, with a questioning lilt.

 

"Right here, Sherlock. I'm right here. Nothing could drag me away."

 

At that, Sherlock sprang up from the reclined bed and was caught in the arms of a surprised John.

 

John gasped in surprise. This sort of intimate contact was a bit foreign to them both. Neither man was prone to outward showings of emotion or affection. Aside from the embrace of encouragement and thanks at John’s wedding, their physical contact had been limited to the occasional pat on the back or shoulder. There would be no limits to John’s affection right now.

Sherlock tucked his head against John's chest and wrapped his arms tightly around John's strong back. He pressed his forehead to John's sternum and shook his head gently side to side.

 

 _'I needed a hug.'_   Sherlock had said a few hours ago. John looked down at the crown of Sherlock's head, the mussed, oily curls falling around his ears. ' _He needed this from you before. He really needs it now_.'

 

"Oh, Sherlock. I've got you now." John slowly lifted his arms to return the embrace and gave Sherlock a soft squeeze in return. Sherlock turned his head and laid the right side against John's rhythmic heartbeat. John lifted his right arm from Sherlock's back and slowly dragged his thumb across the fresh stitches on Sherlock's eyebrow and then down his cheek and over the purplish/yellow bruises. John winced at the sight of the dark red of the subconjunctival hemorrhage on his right eye, a stark contrast against the gold-bluish-green of Sherlock's iris. ‘Christ. I hit him so hard.’

 

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here. I'm so sorry I was late getting here. This should never have happened. You shouldn't even be here! Look what I did to you! Look at what you did to yourself! This is all my fault!"

 

Sherlock tilted his neck towards John's thumb and palm and pressed his face against it. The left corner of his mouth pressed a weak kiss to John's palm.

 

"I would do all of this again if it meant you'd be here with me now." Sherlock admitted faintly.

 

"Sherl, Sherlock, you can't mean that. These last weeks, what you've done to yourself, why would you do that? Why would you do all of this for me? Why would you risk your health, **YOUR LIFE** , just to get me to talk to you again?"

 

"John, you are, unequivocally, the most important person that has ever been a part of my life. No one has ever compared. All of what I have done the last seven years that I've known you have been for your safety. For my own sanity as well. Without you, I am rudderless, lost at sea. I've never known someone who has so thoroughly consumed my motives. Consumed **_ME_**."

After the admission, he repositioned his right temple against John's breastbone and let himself settle against the softness of John's shirt and the warmth of his chest. John raised both of his arms and encircled Sherlock around his shoulders. He lowered his head and placed his left cheek on Sherlock's tangled mass of curls. He could feel Sherlock relaxing, pressing a bit harder against him as the tightness of Sherlock's frame loosened.

 

John just held Sherlock, and softly swayed them back and forth, calming his sick friend. Thoughts of revenge simmering at the back of his mind. At the forefront, nothing but healing, for the both of them.


	2. Chapter Two

Malnourished. Double kidney failure. Sexual assault. These were just the physical issues Sherlock was currently facing. As a physician, John knew the basic course of treatment for all three of these problems. The malnutrition was an easy IV fix, then on to solid foods when Sherlock’s body was able to tolerate it. The kidney failure was a bit more complex. In Sherlock’s case, it was acute. A condition that could be reversed with the proper medication cocktail, plenty of fluid intake and quite a bit of rest. Since Sherlock was a relatively healthy man, he wouldn’t need dialysis. He was looking at a few weeks to a month of hospitalization.

He had already begun the detox treatment program when he was first admitted. Sherlock’s doctors, a nephrologist and a psychologist, and, also with the help of a nutritionist, had all come together with John to discuss their approach to Sherlock’s individual needs. Everyone involved figured it would be easier to include and consult with John and have him help in seeing that Sherlock was open and receptive to all of their advice. John’s presence always seemed to make Sherlock’s interactions with other people become a much smoother affair. They also would more than likely avoid having to deal with Mycroft Holmes. No sense in involving the British Government when it wasn’t really necessary.

The matter of the sexual assault was an entirely different animal. Sherlock fell asleep shortly after their shared comforting embrace. John settled him back against the sheets and held his hand as his breathing evened out. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss how that was to be handled. John felt it was a matter to which he would defer to Sherlock. As much as his testimony of the event would benefit in the charging and prosecution of Culverton Smith, that was a conclusion Sherlock would have to reach on his own with no provocation from John. This issue was far too emotional for knee-jerk reactions and responses.

He held Sherlock’s right hand as he used his right to make a few calls with his mobile. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were more than willing to switch off with minding Rosie while John stayed at the hospital to support Sherlock’s recovery. Mycroft, surprisingly, was more than willing to send Anthea to John’s home to pack him a bag of necessaries so he could stay with Sherlock. You might even say that Mycroft was pleased to do it. Contrary to most who knew him, and Sherlock especially, Mycroft loved his younger brother more than he would ever let on. John was also able to persuade the hospital staff to allow him a fold-out chair from the oncology department so he’d have a place to lie down while Sherlock was asleep.

When it arrived, John dragged his new chair next to Sherlock’s bed and folded his fingers through Sherlock’s, lightly grazing his thumb across Sherlock’s (even bonier than it was before) wrist. He reached around himself and gently, with his right hand, dragged the sleeve of the hospital gown up to Sherlock’s elbow. He caressed the fresh puncture wounds there and shook his head. As his eyes welled, they caught on the scab that was forming from the newest needle jab.

He thought they were past all of this. After the month-long downward slide, post John's wedding to Mary, Sherlock has made it a point to be clean. He wanted to be clean before the arrival of John's daughter. He wanted John to feel comfortable letting Sherlock be around Rosie. Sherlock seemed to be able to channel his cravings onto other things this last year. He just seemed _better. ‘I guess, for us, better is a relative term_.’ John could empathize with Sherlock’s addictions. They shared a common dependence. Sherlock’s work became _their_   work. Then Mary made them a trio. And when Rosie arrived, Sherlock looked like he was complete, _whole,_ for the first time since John’s known him. ‘Oh.’ John thought to himself, the sudden realization walloping him across his face. So much of John has permeated Sherlock’s life these last seven years. So much of Sherlock’s happiness tangled in the Watson family. One-third of them is gone, and another third has been absent from Sherlock’s life for over a month. Rosie has been lighting up Sherlock’s face since the moment she was born on the back seat of the Watson’s car. His were the second pair of hands that held her. (John delivered her. The honor of being the first went to him.) They’ve really been a quartet since that evening on the side of the road, and for the last month, Sherlock has been alone. Excluded from the two remaining thirds of his ‘family’. John knows very well that alone does not protect Sherlock Holmes, despite the detective’s vehement proclamations.

John was roused from his self-reflection as Sherlock shifted on the bed, releasing a short sigh as he turned, unknowingly, towards John. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand a bit as he resettled, a bit on his back, but mostly on his side.

He watched his friend, hoped he was in the throes of a pleasant dream. At this point, he’d be grateful if it were dreamless. He continued to hold Sherlock’s hand while he slid the sleeve of the gown back down to Sherlock’s wrist.

John sighed. Such a long road ahead. For both of them.

Conversations need to be had. Forgiveness to be begged for. John had so many amends to make. So many things to atone for.


	3. Chapter 3

During the night, they lost their grip on each other. Sherlock woke first, a rare moment of lucidity. John had recommended a bit of Alprazolam be added to Sherlock’s IV to help him sleep. He looked blearily around the room, trying to get his bearings. He noticed John’s hand, lying palm up, at Sherlock’s side. A weak, crooked smile lifted the left side of his face. He turned and laid on his right side and placed his left hand across John’s palm and curled his slender fingers around it. If he was honest with himself, he was a bit surprised that John was still here.

‘ _Who was looking after Rosie? Has John been here with me all night?’_ Then he noticed the new chair in the room. **‘** _John must’ve stayed here all night with me. He doesn’t seem to be cross with me anymore. Why is he here? Why is he sitting at my bedsi… oh.’_

The stark cognizance of his situation revealed itself as he regained himself. John had seen. John saw what Smith did to him. A flush of shame crept over his face. He had climaxed in Smith’s hand. He had _enjoyed_   it. His body betrayed him. Biologically, he knew that his transport did exactly what it is programmed to do. But why couldn’t his mind override it? He created his mind palace for just this sort of event.

John stirred on his fold out chair. He blinked himself back to awareness and immediately noticed the warmth of Sherlock’s hand lying across his. He gave it a squeeze as he knit their fingers together.

“Hey. Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“I should ask you the same question. Lying on that chair can’t possibly be doing anything good for your shoulder.”

“You don’t need to be worrying about my shoulder, you git. There are other, more pressing matters, for you to be focusing your attention.”

“No need to remind me.”

Sherlock broke his gaze from John and he let go of his hand. John reluctantly returned the favor.

“We do need to talk about some things, Sherlock. Are you feeling up to it right now? Are you awake enough to talk?”

“As soon as I realized what happened yesterday, there is no possible way I could be more aware of myself.”

Chagrined, John gave him an understanding look. His years of medical training have prepared him for this type of conversation.

“Sherlock, I just want you to know that there is nothing that could happen to you that would make me leave you. You have nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. Don’t you think that way for even one second do you hear me?”

“John, I have to accept a bit of the blame, don’t I? If I hadn’t relapsed, I wouldn’t have been in this bed, and Smith wouldn’t have had the opportunity to, um, to do what he did. To me. I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t gone back to using.”

“I understand now why you did it. I saw the DVD Mary sent you. I know what she told you to do. I wish I had known the extent of what was going on with you while we’d been apart. If I’d known you’d gone back to drugs, I don’t know. Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe I wouldn’t have been such a belligerent twat to you.”

“Sherlock, I sat here with you for a long time last night. I watched you as you slept and there was a bit of soul-searching done on my part. Some self-reflection. I’ve been a right bastard to you since Mary died. How I ever could’ve blamed you for her death, is simply baffling to me. I spoke to Mycroft last night and he told me how the situation played out. He told me how Mary raced to put herself between you and that bullet. Once she had her mind made up, there was no time to change the outcome. He told me you just stood there, statue-like. Like you were waiting for it to happen instead of getting out of the way. Like you wanted to die or something.”

John paused a moment and caught Sherlock’s startled expression. He blinked with purpose, steeling his resolve.

“You have to stop doing shit like this. Devaluing yourself like this. And you _really_   have to stop doing it for _me_.” I can’t keep watching you die in front of me. You think you’re saving me, but, really, you’re just, you’re just slowly killing me. You’re destroying yourself over and over again, **FOR ME** , and I will never understand why you continually do it.”

“For the entirety of my life, John, you are the only person I’ve been willing to die for. I’ve never cared for someone the way I’ve let myself care for you. Then ‘you’ became the three of you. I cared so much for Mary, because she became such a large part of your life. Then, Rosamund came along, and my fate was sealed. I knew the moment she was born, that I was supposed to keep the Watsons safe, no matter the cost. And if the price for that safety was my health, security or even my life, then, needs must.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

“I meant it when I told you I loved you, Sherlock. I know it was said in a roundabout way. Mostly because I was too chicken to say it to you properly. But, in light of what’s happened to us, our misfit family, I think I need to say it to you so you truly understand me. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I love you. I love you being **alive** and healthy and obstinate. I need you, even more now than I think I needed you before. Rosie needs you, too. Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. We all love you and want you around for as long as our chosen career will let you be here. Please, don’t take yourself away from us sooner than we deserve.”

Sherlock choked on a held breath.

“And as long as I’m pouring out my heart here, I want you to know a few things: I will be here with you in whatever capacity you want me. I will be by your side for the duration. The detox and the kidney failure. And I also want you to know that I will follow your lead regarding the assault. However you want to handle it, I will be right here with you to support you. I. I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to go through this alone.”

“I’m not sure what to say to all of that, John.”

“Just say that you’ll let me sit in this figurative corner with you until you’re ready to fight your way back out.”

John now had both of his hands around Sherlock’s left hand, as he looked into his misty eyes.

“All right?”

“Okay, John. Okay.”

Sherlock shifted a bit on the bed and brought his hands together around John’s.

“I’m ready to start now. But first, I need to tell you about what happened yesterday.”


	4. Chapter Four

John braced himself. Sherlock shifted again on the bed and let go of John’s hands in the process. John watched him lie on his back and took a deep breath. This was going to be very hard to hear.

“Sherlock, don’t feel that you have to do this. I don’t want you to feel pressured to have this conversation right now. You’ve been through so much and you’re still very unwell.”

“I think it’s best to do this as soon as possible. I'd like to do this sooner rather than later, while the details are still relatively fresh in my mind. I know you have questions and I think during the retelling, I’ll make a decision regarding the handling of the situation. As far as involving the police, I mean.”

“If at any point you want to stop, you just tell me. If you want me to leave, tell me to hit the road. This conversation never has to happen if you don’t want it to.”

“Honestly, John, I think getting it out will help me to heal. Both mentally and physically. I appreciate your sentiments.”

John could hear an arctic chill creeping into Sherlock’s voice. His back became straighter and his gaze became, once again, unfocused. His demeanor mirrored his friend’s.

“I had been sleeping, but not very soundly. I remembered distantly hearing you in the room, silently saying goodbye to me. Talking to Nurse Cornish and then to Mycroft on the phone as you were getting ready to leave. A minute or so after you left, things went quiet in the room. I woke up to Smith sitting next to me at some point after. He told me he had been watching me. Watched me as I woke. Told me it was a lovely scene to witness.” Sherlock shook his head a bit then continued.

“He then proceeded to stalk around my bed and tell me how he liked to turn people into things. Quite creepy, actually. Bits and pieces of the conversation are a blur. I do, however, remember him asking me why I was there in the first place. 'Why I’d walked into his den and laid down for him', he'd said.”

John squinted his eyes and his head tilted a bit in discomfort. ‘ _Just breathe, John. This isn’t anywhere near as hard for you as it is for him.’_

“He asked me to tell him how I felt. He seemed to enjoy my fear. He told me to tell him that I wanted him to kill me. He didn’t care about my reasons, he made me keep repeating that I didn’t want to die. I must’ve said it three or four or times before he began. He adjusted my IV drip and then confessed to his darkness. It was incredibly chilling. That’s when he mentioned the bit about how happy it made him to turn people into things. He lowered my bed, then he, he put his hands on me. I thought he was just going to suffocate me. That was how it started. A hand over my mouth and the other over my nose. I flailed my arms desperately, but I was too weak to really be able to stop him.”

John’s hands clenched as Sherlock recounted his ordeal. He was grateful that Sherlock wasn’t looking at him right now. John’s appearance would surely make him stop talking.

Sherlock was on autopilot now. An eerie absence of emotion in his words. An emptiness that seemed to spread through him.

“At some point, after I began to lose consciousness, he moved his arms. I think I whispered your name as I was fading. That seemed to shake his determination and refocus his plan for me. He moved his left hand to my mouth and his right… He moved his right down towards my blanket and peeled it back. Then he drew back my gown. Then. Then he started touching…me. There. Like you saw. He started mocking me. Telling me it was a pity that I was going to die a virgin. He thought that was sad, so he was going to do something nice for me instead. Before he killed me. He asked me if I wished it were you instead of him doing that to me. He told me to think of you while he was touching me. I tried to look away from him, and go into my mind palace and try to think about you talking me through it, but every time my eyes drifted away, he told me to look at him. Made me watch his face while he violated me. ‘Maintain eye contact.” he’d said. He said that a few times. Told me he liked to watch it happen.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John gasped out.

As if he didn’t hear John’s outburst, he continued on.

“I could hear you walking down the hallway. I would recognize your gait anywhere. I was elated and mortified at the same time. I wanted you back so badly, but I didn’t want you to see what was happening to me. You walked in as he was finishing me off. I still don’t understand why I couldn’t fight him off. I remember repeating your name to myself while it was happening. Pretending it was you touching me and not _him_. But I couldn’t get far removed enough mentally because he kept grabbing at my face and making me look at him. I could hear you trying to get into the room. Heard you trying to break down the door. I’d almost hoped that Smith would kill me before you got through it. So you wouldn’t have to see it. So I wouldn’t have to _see you_ seeing it. My body failed me, John. I took no satisfaction from Smith. But it reacted in such a way that proves that statement to be false.”

“No, no, no. Sherlock. No. An orgasm is a natural _biological_ reaction to physical stimuli that can’t always be controlled; it does not mean that forced or coerced sexual activity was enjoyed by the victim. Do not, ever, EVER blame yourself for any of this. You’ve been ill. Up until a few minutes before the assault, you were asleep, sedated. You were already in a weakened state. It would not have been difficult for Smith to overpower you. I’d hate to think what could’ve happened if you were able to physically put up more of a fight. You might be dead if he hadn’t been able to get what he wanted from you. Before I stumbled in here and interrupted him.”

“I just wish you hadn’t been forced to see it, too. I don’t want you to think I wanted him to do that to me. I’ve never really wanted anyone to touch me. Especially like that.”

“Sherlock, going forward, I need you to understand something. I will never fault you for any of this. The drugs relapse, the fight you picked with Smith…you did all of it because of your feelings for me. The guilt I made you feel for what happened to Mary. Excluding you from my life because of my misplaced guilt for all that happened. Rosie and I needed you so much, and I denied all three of us what we needed to heal. You needed us, and we needed you. We all missed Mary. Probably always will. But this is my fault. Do you understand? Sherlock, I need you to let go of your guilt for a situation that you weren’t able to control. I need you to see that you are the most important person in my life. You and Rosie will have top billing for the rest of my life. I need you to hear that, and I need you to believe it. And if you don’t, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you believe it.”

A sob escaped John’s throat. This was surreal.

“Sherlock, may I hug you? Please?”

“Oh, John. Of course!” Sherlock began to cry.

John stepped off of his chair and went to Sherlock. He sat down beside him and pushed his arms under Sherlock’s back and pulled him to his chest. They embraced and held on to each other until they heard the soft snick of the door opening behind them. Lestrade.

“Oh. Sorry to interrupt gents. I just wanted to check-in and see how the patient was doing.”

John and Sherlock untangled their arms from around each other and Sherlock let himself settle back against the mattress. He quickly patted at his eyes and cheeks and John did the same. They both turned to face Lestrade at the same time.

“I’m doing much better, Lestrade. Thank you for your concern.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not just here for friendship’s sake, Sherlock. Culverton Smith is currently being held without cause at my station. His twenty four hour hold is almost over and I wanted to talk to you and John about what happened in here. My constable removed him at John’s provocation, but I need to hear your side of the story.”

John glanced back at Sherlock, seeking guidance as to how they should proceed. Sherlock looked at him quickly from his periphery, and glared back at Lestrade.

“I believe I was able to get Smith’s confession last night.”

“Confession? What’d he confess to doing?”

“He’s a serial killer. He’s been using this hospital as a means to choose innocent people and make them into victims. What better place to kill people than a place where people die on a regular basis? Check the handle of John’s old cane. I hid a recording device in there a few weeks ago. I suspected John would bring it for me to use around here and then at home when I’m released.”

In disbelief, John turned his entire body to face Sherlock.

“You did what now?”

“Oh, John. Don’t be so surprised. I knew who you’d choose as your new therapist before you did. Don't you think I’d know your overabundance of sentimentality would spur you to let me borrow your old cane? You underestimate how well I know you.”

Ah. There’s the Sherlock John knows and loves. Loves. He does indeed.

“Also, on that recording, there are some things that you will hear that I would like you to keep to yourself. Edit the recording if you must before you present it to anyone else. I want the extraneous details of the event documented on the recording to remain between the three of us.”

“Sherlock, what are you..?”

“I mean it, Greg. Just the three of us are to know. That is my only condition to letting you have the recording.”

Shocked, Lestrade turned his eyes to John, who nodded in agreement.

“Believe me, Greg, once you hear it, you’ll understand everything.”

“Okay. Thank you, Sherlock. For your help. I always had a sinking feeling whenever I saw that wanker on the telly. Something with his eyes just didn’t sit right with me. I always thought it was my overactive copper brain sending me the wrong signals.”

“Let’s just say you were absolutely correct. Your lizard brain was giving you the correct signs. But. Um, if you don’t mind, I think Sherlock could use a kip. I need to get out of here for a bit as well, but I’d like to see him settled before I run off and see Rosie for a bit.”

“Oh, sure! Absolutely! I’ll give you a ring after I listen to the recording and keep you updated on the situation with Smith. Have a good evening, lads. You get better soon, Sherlock.”

With that, Lestrade gave them both a wave and left them alone.

“That was a wonderful thing you just did, Sherlock. Truly.”

“I hardly think me handing over critical evidence that could convict a serial killer could be deemed as an act of wonder, John.”

A laugh forced its way from John’s throat. “You know what I mean, you great numpty. Letting Lestrade know what happened is very brave of you.”

“I’ll let you know if I feel brave once he’s listened to it and tries to speak with me about it.”

“You don’t have to say another word about it if you don’t want to. I’m supporting you whatever way you decide to handle this. I was actually surprised you told him so soon. We’ve barely discussed it ourselves.”

“I think I’m about done talking for today. Would you mind if I take that nap?”

“I wasn’t just saying that to shoo Greg from the room. I actually think you’ve had a pretty draining day so far. I’ll get out of your hair, go see Rosie and check in with work and see if I can get some time off to hang here with you on days you want me around.”

“Before you go, would you mind staying here with me? Until I fall asleep that is?”

“Sure, let me go slide my chair back over here and…”

“No!” Sherlock grabbed at John’s right wrist as he moved to slide off the side of the bed.

“Could you just stay here? Up here with me? I don’t think I’ll be awake much longer. It would just be nice to have you close by while I fall asleep.”

Pleasantly taken aback, John responded, “Okay. Sure. That sounds fine. Just budge over a bit and I’ll sit here beside you until you doze off. That sound okay?”

“That sounds perfect.” Sherlock agreed sleepily. He wiggled himself further down the mattress and laid his right cheek against John’s left shoulder. John reached down and pulled the blanket over them both and slid his left arm under and then around Sherlock’s back.

“There you go. Get some sleep and I’ll see you later tonight if you want me back.”

“Of course, John. I always want you here.” he mumbled as his eyes slowly closed. John felt Sherlock’s body become heavy against his side. He brought his right hand up and began to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“I’ve got you, you enormous twit.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock spent a little over a fortnight in hospital. John managed to convince the staff to release Sherlock into John’s care. They’d decided to have John stay at Baker Street for a few weeks to help Sherlock around the flat until he was feeling better. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson was downstairs for the times when John had to step out.

Lestrade contacted John a few days after he visited Sherlock in hospital. He chose a day when he knew John would be at work so they could speak freely. He told John that Smith was made aware of the recording, and was told that Sherlock was willing to testify to everything heard on it. Everything. Lestrade decided to call Smith’s bluff. Most people as arrogant as Smith wanted, deep down, to have everyone who would listen, find out about their clever crimes. His bet was well played. He wanted to tell John to let him know the good news and to let him know that the original recording had been destroyed. The edited version was admitted into evidence for Smith’s impending trial. Lestrade texted Sherlock a quick update soon after he rang off with John, not wanting to make things uncomfortable for him. Sherlock wouldn’t want to be treated any differently because of what happened. The status quo was the best course of action.

John spoke to his boss at the surgery and cut his hours drastically so he could be with Sherlock during the majority of Sherlock's recovery. During his downtime at work, John found his mind floating to thoughts of Sherlock. The time they’d spend in hospital was good for them. They were both able to talk some things through that they’d both been harboring for years. While at work, he was barely making it through his shifts. He wished he could quit, but the situation at Baker Street was a temporary one. At some point, Sherlock would be feeling better and John and Rosie would move back to the suburbs. He wished he could come back to Baker Street. The only place that’s felt like his home since the house in which he was raised.

On the days he did have to work, he got Sherlock, as settled as **_he_** could be, and Mrs. Hudson would come up and spend the day with him. Occasionally, Molly would come over and it would be the three of them, with Miss Rosie a delighted participant in all the goings on. So many adults vying for her attention!

John decided he’d bring Rosie and most of her things to stay with him and Sherlock at Baker Street. He moved the coffee table to Sherlock’s bedroom and bought an air mattress at Tesco and shoved it flush against the couch. He set up Rosie’s cot in the sitting room next to him. He wanted to be closer to Sherlock in the event that he needed his help during the night. He put Rosie’s baby monitor in there with Sherlock so he could hear him call for him. Sherlock didn’t much care for the implication of the _baby_   monitor, but, realistically, he knew that John would sleep through a text alert.

And on the night the following event occurred, John was glad he was able to get Sherlock to allow him to leave it with him.

The three of them had been cohabitating for ten days. Sherlock said good night to Rosie and John and got himself to bed. John changed Rosie’s nappy, read her a book, and settled her in her cot. As he got himself ready for bed, he could hear Sherlock restlessly shuffling about in bed while he brushed his teeth. He stopped brushing and pressed an ear to Sherlock’s bedroom door. Frustrated sighs followed by tossing and turning. John shook his head and returned to the sink. They’d stopped the Alprazolam two weeks ago. And for the last ten days, it was becoming increasingly difficult for Sherlock to fall asleep. Someone with a history of drugs abuse shouldn’t really take Alprazolam. In some people, it can mimic a high similar to those associated with opioids. They weaned him back in hospital and he finally took the last dose, in pill form, ten days ago. Sherlock pretended he was all right, but John could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

John padded out to the sitting room. He peeked over the side of Rosie’s cot. She was out like a light. ‘That’s my girl.’

He quietly slid onto the mattress and brought the covers up to his chest. He could hear the soft snuffling of his daughter’s dreaming beside him. They were the last thing he heard until Sherlock’s shouts hours later.

John sat straight up as the echo of the first exclamation bounced around the entire flat. He sat there for a few moments and listened to the room around him. He looked over at Rosie, but was relieved to discover that she was still asleep. He felt about in the dark for the monitor he’d left on the couch beside him. He turned down the volume, so as not wake Rosie, but brought it to his ear.

“No. NO! NO NO NO NO stop. Please. Please **stop**. I don’t want you to touch me. No. No more. Let go. Please. I beg you.”

John’s throat clenched. He pressed his eyes together and held his breath.

“I don’t want him to see. He’s in the hallway. He’s right outside. He can never see this. He can never hear this. NOT EVER.”

‘Oh my God…’ John whispered to no one.

“If he hears what you’re saying, he’ll know how I feel. He can’t know. HE CAN’T EVER KNOW! STOP!”

‘It’s okay Sherlock. I think I’ve known all along. I just wish it hadn’t taken all of this for me to finally hear you.’

John turned off the monitor then shoved it under his pillows. He walked quickly and quietly to the closed door of Sherlock’s bedroom. He reached for the door handle.

Déjà vu.

He haltingly turned the handle and peeked around to try and see into the dark room. Sherlock was on his back, blankets kicked to his knees, legs thrashing against the mattress. His hands were waving around, batting at the air around him. John stepped further into the room and stood about three feet from the bed. Sweat was curling the hair around Sherlock's ears. Sherlock’s eyes were open, tears caught on his lashes and hazing over Sherlock’s rainbow-like eyes.

A night terror. If you try to awaken someone from a night terror, it’s actually difficult to do so. Even if the person appears to be awake, he or she is likely to sleep right through it and forget all about it in the morning. It is usually best to wait it out. Hope Sherlock forgot about it.

But there was no way John could forget it and there was no way he was going to leave Sherlock alone.

John turned and raced to the sitting room and plunged an arm under his pillows for the monitor. He flipped it back on and put it in Rosie’s cot.

He ran back to Sherlock’s room and noiselessly closed the door behind him. Sherlock was a bit calmer, but was now whimpering. John walked around the foot of the bed to the unoccupied side and sat beside his friend, legs on top of the covers. He curled around Sherlock and put his left hand on Sherlock’s bare bicep, his skin sticky with perspiration. As he laid there by Sherlock’s side, he lightly scratched his nails up and down his arm. A soft, relaxing, reassuring gesture.

“Sherlock, I’m here with you. You’re all right. You’re safe. You’re here with me and Rosie. Mrs. Hudson is downstairs. You’re surrounded by people who love you. If you can hear me, I want you to know this: You are loved. You are adored.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and the tears that had been suspended there rolled down the side of his cheeks and landed on his pillow.

“There you go, love. Just relax. I’ve got you. You are protected. No one’s getting to you ever again, not as long as I’m around.”

Sherlock raised his arm and pressed back against John’s touch, instinctively reaching for his warmth.

“Sociopath my ass.” John breathed out with a suppressed chuckle. He stopped his ministrations for a moment and rolled to the edge of his side of the bed. He leaned over and dragged his hand around for something to wipe off Sherlock’s naked chest before he re-covered him with the blanket. Having landed upon something soft, he brought it up to Sherlock’s torso and gave him a quick wipe before dragging the blanket back over Sherlock’s now shivering body. 

He reached for Sherlock’s left hand and held it as they let sleep pull them down through the darkness.

Sherlock woke three hours later and felt the presence of someone else in his room. He was paralyzed with fear before he recognized John’s smell. He glanced down at his hand and felt John’s loose grip, his small fingers relaxed around Sherlock’s. He squeezed them and raised his gaze to his friend’s face. Peace. An expression he’d not seen worn on John’s face for a very long time. He let go of John’s hand, sat up and slung his legs over the bed. He stood up and shuffled quietly to the bathroom. Once finished, he got back into bed. He laid his head on John’s right shoulder, and rested his right hand on John’s chest, over his heart. He was asleep in moments.


	6. Chapter Six

John’s eyes flickered open two hours after Sherlock came back to bed. The left side of John’s body was cold, the right, exceedingly warm. He lifted his head from the pillow and realized his right arm and side were covered protectively by Sherlock’s body. His frizzed hair tickling John’s right pectoral, his right hand lying possessively across John’s stomach. John shifted his arm and hand until he could wrap it around Sherlock’s back.

As his hand slid across it, his eyes grew wide. As he drifted his hand across, he felt many different textures and shapes: smooth, round circles; lines, both long and smooth, raised and jagged. They were spread all over where his hand could touch.

John’s left hand immediately went to his mouth to stifle a heaving gasp. He pulled Sherlock tighter to himself and tried not to cry. ‘When did this happen? Who did this to him? Where are they? I’ll tear their limbs from their bodies with my bare hands. Slit their throats. Hang them all from trees. And not lose a minutes sleep.’

Sherlock could feel the tension in the embrace in which he was encased. John could feel Sherlock’s eyelashes as they flitted against his chest as he woke.

Sherlock woke with immediate awareness of his position and who he was with. Embarrassed, he made to slide from under John’s arm and make a break for it, try to save face.

John would have none of it.

“No. Sherlock. Please. Please stay. If you’re comfortable like this. I woke up to us in this position. I’m all right with it if you are. I heard you last night. I think you were having a night terror about five hours ago. I just wanted to check on you, and then I didn’t want to wake you. Once I was in here, I didn’t want to leave you here alone. So, I stayed. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“John?”

“I mean it. This is fine. So much more than fine, Sherlock. We can stay like this as long as you like. Or until my bladder tells me otherwise.” He forced out a shaky laugh, but Sherlock could feel how feeble the attempt was. The laugh came from John’s throat, not from his stomach or chest. From where John’s true joy lived.

“Sherlock?” John questioned softly, “Can you look at me for a second?”

Sherlock kept his cheek on John’s chest but looked up at John through his upper lashes.

With a steady gaze, but a skipping heart, John said, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” As he spoke, he drifted his fingers across the scars on Sherlock’s back.

“I’m not mad. I just want to know how it happened.”

“You usually can’t be bothered with the ‘how’ of something. The ‘why’ is usually your main concern.”

“Unfortunately, I think I’ve worked the ‘why’ it happened out for myself. I’d also like to know the ‘who’ if you’re feeling up to talking about it.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and slowly released it, blowing hot breath across John’s chest.

“Two years ago, when I was gone from you, um, London, I was out attempting to dismantle Moriarty’s web. I had to go after them because they were watching you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty had snipers trained on all three of you. That’s why I jumped. I had to appear to be dead. While I was hunting them, I was captured and held hostage four times. Once in Russia, once in Belarus, and twice in Serbia. I escaped once. They caught me as I ran in the woods. As you can feel, they weren’t very happy with me.”

“Once they had me again, they had me handcuffed, the chains bolted into the walls. I hung there as they beat me. Whipped me with rope. Put cigarettes out on me. Sliced me with all sorts of implements I never saw.” A shiver of remembrance wracked Sherlock’s body. He could see himself suspended there again, like a crucifixion. John tightened his hold.

“Sherlock, may I see? It’s okay if you say no, but I’d like to see their condition, if you don’t mind.” John smiled a smile that did not reach his navy blue eyes.

“All right.” Sherlock acquiesced to John’s request. He rolled away from John and laid on his belly. John slid the blanket down to the base of Sherlock’s back and sat up to look. He cringed at the sight. There were so many of them. Almost the entirety of Sherlock’s back was covered in smooth scars in varying shades of pink. A few were even flesh-colored.

“Christ almighty.” John managed to say. He placed his left hand on Sherlock’s back and traced the longest of them, a jagged, dark pink line about eight inches long, parallel with his spine. “Jesus Christ. I attacked you a few minutes after I first saw you when you came back. At the restaurant. These couldn’t possibly have healed before I saw you. And then I beat the shit out of you while you laid on the floor.”

“All I do is hurt you! What the fuck is wrong with me?” He removed his hand from Sherlock’s back and brought both of his hands to his face and began to weep.

“Friends don’t lay their hands on their friends like that! The mortuary!” A realization. “Fucking Christ, I did it to you there, too! I kicked you. So many times…I have had zero control over myself these last three years. Why the hell do you do the things you do for me, when all I do is treat you like rubbish? Why do you love me when all I ever manage to show you is anger and frustration? I don’t deserve any kindnesses from you, and all you ever do is give them to me. Unyieldingly. I don’t deserve you, Sherlock. And you most certainly deserve better than me.”

Sherlock slid to his back and pushed himself to sitting and leaned back against the wall behind them. He reached down for the blanket and pulled it to his sternum.

“John, I’ll stop apologizing for things I’ve done **for** you, if you’ll stop apologizing for things you’ve done **to** me. Please. We have to stop hurting each other over and over. We keep reliving these horrible things that have happened to us. We’ve got to stop doing this to each other. Only then will we be able to move past all of this and live our lives.”

“Do you actually think you can forgive me, Sherlock? For all the shitty, despicable things I’ve done and said to you? I don’t think I deserve your forgiveness, if I’m being truly honest here. When you died, um, when you, when you left, all I wanted was for you to come back. To be alive. Then I saw you that night at The Landmark. I’m still not sure why I reacted that way. I honestly thought for a second that I was seeing a ghost. I looked over at Mary, to see if she was seeing you too. And Christ, she did! You were there! You made my wish come true. I was a walking corpse for most of the two years you were away. And suddenly, there you were. I felt as if I was going to swoon and land on the floor. But, for some reason, my first instinct wasn’t to hug you. I couldn’t even yell at you. There were so many emotions swirling about inside of me, I think my body just reverted back to my old standby. I channeled my relief and elation and anger and humiliation and it came out as a seething rage. I never actually apologized for that. Since we’re going to try to move on from all of the shit we’ve put each other through, I wanted you to know that I felt all of those things. At once. But the one that mattered the most was joy. The joy of seeing you alive again. I’m going to try so hard to not let my anger win when the rest of my emotions get the best of me. I promise you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat against his bedroom wall and stared at his friend. So grateful. So proud of him.

“John, I swear that I will never do anything to intentionally harm myself. I will do my very best to stay away from drugs. I will never do something like I did during the Moriarity case without talking it through with you first. I aspire to try to be the person you think I am.That is my new vow to you. And to Rosie. And to all those who care for me.”

“We don’t just care for you, you idiot. We _love_ you.” John smiled, trying for a bit of levity. It worked.

“For all those who _love_ me, then. That word doesn’t really roll easily off the tongue for me, John. Give me a bit of time to get used to it.” He lowered his head, but smiled sheepishly as he did so.

“So, are we all settled here? Anything else you want to say? I’m all ears.”

Nervously, Sherlock tilted his head towards John and then looked at the wall behind his right ear.

“There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Or ask you, rather. I. I would greatly appreciate if you would do me the honor of moving back here with me. And be my flat mate again.”

“Sherlock, I do live here with you already.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I don’t mean this temporary situation, John. I mean, you and Rosie. Here. For as long as you want. Your presence, in this flat, for as long as you decide to stay.”

“Sherlock?” John couldn’t keep the surprise from his countenance. “Are you really sure about that? Having Rosie here alone could be a huge burden to you.”

“Your daughter could never be a burden to me, John. She is a part of you. Therefore, I love her.”

“Sherlock…”

“And as far as our work is concerned, we have plenty of people in our lives who would be able to step in and assist us with her care.”

“I don’t know what to say to all of this, Sherlock. This is so much coming from you. Out of your actual mouth.”

“I decided that I was tired of pretending I don’t care for you, love you, too. I miss you being here. I miss Rosie. I want to watch her grow up and be as much a part of that as you’ll let me. I’m a better person with you by my side, John. And, I want to be a better person. So I need you. Here with me, that is. If you’re amenable.”

John needed a moment. This was enormous. For the both of them.

“If I’m amenable... You nitwit. Of course, I’m _amenable_. I’ve missed this place, and you, so much these last three years. I feel like I’m really at home when I’m here, even when I’ve just been for a visit. These last few weeks have been great for me. I know Rosie loves it here, too. She would always be so upset when we’d all go to leave for home. She’d cry half way home. She adores you, Sherlock. I would be honored if you’d help me raise her.”

Sherlock’s face crumbled. He reached for John and dragged him to sitting and wrapped his long arms around John’s body.

“I am so glad to hear that, John! I will clean this flat! No more experiments. I’ll help Mrs. Hudson renovate 221C and turn that into a lab and I can move down there when I’m feeling better. We can put you in my room and fix up your old room for Rosie.”

“Whoa! Wait a minute there, Sherlock. The purpose of us coming back here is to live with you, not above you. Rosie can share a room with me until she’s old enough to need her own. And then, maybe, down the line, we can, um, see where that leaves us.”

“John?”

John broke their embrace and leaned back. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand and brought their faces close.

“Sherlock, I think the only positive thing that’s come out of this ordeal is the fact that we’ve both been able to see and kind of talk about, um, how much we love each other. And I know I’ve been known to throw a wobbly whenever someone insinuates that you and are, um _, together_. I realize now that I reacted that way so many times because, I sort of knew we were actually together, just not in the physical sense. And I’d like you to know, that, if at any point in time, next month, next year, hell, _twenty years from now_ , if you’d ever like to make our relationship something more than friendship, I would honestly love to give that a try.”

“I never thought I’d say this to anyone in my life, but I would actually love to try that with you, too. I’ve never loved someone the way I love you, John. Not ever. And I think, after all of this is behind us, and we have some time to work on ourselves and how we present ourselves to each other, I honestly think we could, someday, be wonderful together.”

John leaned in a bit further and raised his eyebrows questioningly at Sherlock. He nodded his consent, and John pressed his lips softly against Sherlock’s, morning breath be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please click kudos. If you really liked it, tell me why in the comments. This is my longest fic and I'd really appreciate some feedback. Keep it nice, okay? :)


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